


Loki's Game

by TariTheNurse



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Anger, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fire play, Hate, Ice Play, Imprisonment, Lemon, NSFW, Pain, Restraints, Revenge, SM and masochism, Smut, Torture, mention of trauma, not how to do kinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-16 02:24:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20164030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TariTheNurse/pseuds/TariTheNurse
Summary: Ice meets fire. Obviously it gets steamy.





	Loki's Game

**Author's Note:**

> Was listening to "The Game" by Disturbed and parts had me think up this...although I did tone it down a bit on the non-con part.

Even though his brain is sluggish and his vision blurry, the memory still stands sharp for Loki simply because such an event is relatively rare.

The “Asgardian prince” had been on his own for months, enjoying the solitude and anonymity which allowed him to really study the culture of the realm he was visiting. Knowledge equals power, and Loki meant to establish his rule here first. There was much to learn, and consequently he’d found an aid in the public library of the capitol in the shape of a well versed female with a keen knowledge and an abundance of literature at hand. Ọkụ, was her name. Fiery, wild hair; dark skin radiating heat; and eyes aflame with liquid gold. Like many of her kin, Ọkụ’s lithe figure was dressed in airy silks of orange, yellow and red hues embellished with gold matching her brazen personality. Oh, she was polite and carried herself with grace, but it was her wit that had made her such lovely company whenever Loki took a break from reading during the long evenings she allowed him to stay after closing.

Perhaps that’s why he didn’t see it coming.

The former prince has found himself in many tricky situations before, mostly of his own doing as his taste for chaos rarely incites friendship. More than once, he’s been at the mercy of his enemies who either resort to crude power by weapon or people. Not this time.

Rolling his shoulders, Loki feels the bite of chains around his limbs and chest and the coolness of manacles weighing the wrists down. His skull throbs, though less so now than a few minutes ago when he first regained consciousness.

“He wakes,” Ọkụ’s rich voice heralds, resembling something between a playful purring and a threatening growl.

“He does.” There’s no reason for Loki not to agree, and he finds her beguiling shape through a lifting haze. “May I ask what the cause for all this is?”

“I know who you are, Loki.” The softness drains from her, revealing the first sliver of cold. “Prince of Asgard, maybe. Jotun and son of Laufeyson? No doubt.”

Few people know of this outside Asgard and Jotunheim, but if the Jotun in question is shocked at the revelation he doesn’t show so. A slight smirk graces his lips while he reconsiders the female before him. Now that he can clearly see again, the prince notes the dark stonewall Ọkụ is leaning against as well as the lack of windows. The door is made of the same metal as the furniture and chains in the sparsely equipped room. Is it a cell? If so, it doesn’t appear to have been the original function. Storage, then. Craning his neck, a simple mattress with clean bedding comes into view, urging his body to ache for the softness of it.

“Asgardian or not, Ọkụ, we have no quarrel,” Loki begins.

The stinging connection of hand and cheek whips the male’s head to the side, but it’s the lingering burn that shocks him. Loki’s body rebels against the smoldering sensation by releasing a flow of his Jotun nature, spreading cold and blue across his skin to soothe the unexpected ache. A faint smell of fried meat tickles the nostrils. Efrit_._ The race isn’t native to this realm, having instead developed through eons in the fiery regions of various hellish planes of existence where they’ve adopted and adapted along with the burning pits. The power as enticing as it is dangerous.

“You’re not the only one to do research,” the female continues with seething rage, “I recognized you the _day_ you stepped through the arches to my library, _despoiling_ the halls that had been my refuge since _you_ brought _death_ to my home.”

Biting back his own anger at Ọkụ’s accusation, Loki has to restrain himself to keep the voice calm. “I’ve never been to this realm before.”

“True.” Somehow the agreement feels like a threat. “However, you’ve frequented Muspelheim…including the _only_ peaceful corner there.”

Loki stays quiet. He clearly remembers the scenery around him as he came to his senses more than a year ago. Rejected by the only family he had known, the adopted son of an Aesir had drifted through time and space before landing on the fiery planet where he had abandoned restraint. He remembers the rush of power.

Burning golden gaze is locked on Loki’s face. “Any words in your defense?”

“Why should I speak?” His stubborn refusal to play the cowed prisoner seems to surprise her. “You seek revenge? Take it. I regret nothing.”

Slender fingers with shimmering red nails wrap around his shoulder where thin flames erupt as the clothes are reduced to ashes and his skin blisters and burns until Loki can’t restrain the Jotun power any longer. Ridges and indigo colour circles the damaged body part to form a hard shell of ice as protection, pushing Ọkụ’s hand away from the skin so it can heal. The relief is a blessed contrast after the pain. The sweet pain.

The same happens when she grasps his arm.

And throat.

With a frustrated snarl, she tears the ruined tunic from Loki’s shoulders, baring his chest to the chains wrapping around him only to reveal how even there his skin is blue and patterned with ridges from which the ice creeps across his body to soothe the torment she inficts.

Fighting the ice even as it freezes her skin, Ọkụ flails at her prisoner with sharp nails and burning fists until they both are out of breath and the smoldering remains of Loki’s clothes are hanging in strips from his limbs or lying in crumbled patches on the floor.

While she has been busy, the former Asgardian has kept as still as possible, working behind the back to weaken the chains and he’s close to the goal now. Cold eyes roam the panting figure as she uses the break to explore the Jotun pattern with interest. Perhaps she’s contemplating a new strategy now that options for taking revenge are limited. The darkened gaze and the quick dash of her tongue across her lips certainly gives the prisoner new ideas.

“What now? Giving up?” Loki mocks, hoping to distract her, “I remember the screams, you know…your people _begging_ for mercy as I slaughtered them.” Plump lips part in horror at his words. “It’s a mistake that _you_ survived…I thought I’d finished every…single…last…_pathetic_ one of you!”

The male practically spits the last words, driving the hatred to consume Ọkụ to the point where she does not think. Face twisted from the pain of the memories; she screams to release a swirling vortex of fire that cocoons the Jotun, obscuring him. The flames singe his hairs, dry his lungs painfully even with the ice cold shield that forms around him, but they also hide his actions and allow him to break the temperature-weakened chains. The metal links have not even touched the floor before Loki is barrelling forward and slamming into the hot female.

Landing on the floor, the wind is knocked from Ọkụ’s lungs, bringing the fiery breath to an end and granting Loki the time to straddle the enticing shape with her hands pressed into the floor above her head. The Efrit smells of coals and dry heat as their cheeks brush against each other.

“My turn,” the Jotun whispers, “my time to play.”

He blesses his biological parents for the ice that coats his skin anywhere it touches the female’s, but the heat is still a blistering draft mingling her copper with his raven locks as he looks into the frightened eyes that flicker from his face to his exposed torso. Such an unfair advantage. Adjusting the hold, Loki frees a hand to grab onto the silken garment where it pools along the collar bone.

There is nothing but the slightest shift in balance as the fabric rips with a sound of sand across stones. Still, it’s enough for the fiery spirit to utilize, tipping the center of gravity into a roll and Loki onto his back. Ọkụ is splayed along his form, abdomen flat against the male’s crotch so he can feel the tension of the muscles as she moves enough to look down her own form as best as she can with her arms still locked in a cold grip. Loki looks too, not bothering to hide the effect the situation has against her shape. And what a shape: soft, full, strong, and slender in all the right places. A glimmer of gold from a dark nipple, same in the shadow between their bodies where her bellybutton marks the point where they meet.

No burn from neither fire nor ice. It’s a tentative ceasefire designed to draw out a reaction from the other.

The movement starts in Ọkụ’s thighs, wide and strong as they hoist her rear upwards like a wave at sea breaching the shoreline. Though dependant on the Jotun’s strength to support her upper body until their hips are aligned and she stretches to come closer, breast swelling between them and faces soon inches apart. Blown pupils and mischievous grin betrays how perfectly she’s aware that the dress isn’t coming along…and of the growing erection. The risk is great, Loki knows, that this is nothing but a plot from her side to regain the upper hand.

The kiss she plants on his cheekbone is gentle until it’s not, instead becoming a searing pain, making Loki hiss in pleasurable discomfort. As ice forms, she’s the one to gasp, moving on to repeat the process on his jaw, below the ear, the collarbone. Pain and carnal temptation mingled.

Surprisingly, Ọkụ doesn’t make a run for it when the once-Asgardian releases her wrists, merely entwines the fingers of a hand in the dark hair while the other begins to trace thin, smoldering paths along the lines of Loki’s chest. A delighted purr breaks her lips as strong hands grasp her hips and begins to rock her. The friction ignites a basic desire within Loki to take control, starting with ridding the temptress of anything blocking his view. Embers blaze across his chest in the wake of a nail the moment the silk is torn, making him arch in sweet agony. He can’t hear his own cry over the pealing laughter falling from Ọkụ’s lips.

“Enough!” A flick of his hand sends the Efrit crashing against the wall, joined by chains of metal enforced by ice to hold her in place. “I said…it was _my_ turn.”

Tight copper curls adorn the apex where her thighs meet. Breasts bounce with ill-contained laughter even if the lustrous skin is turning slightly purple where the frozen restraints are. And it’s his for the taking. In two paces, Loki is upon her, lips and teeth latching on the gold-adorned nipple suckling and tugging harshly while he massages the other roughly. Surges of chill sends goosebumps dancing like rain upon the ground across her body even while she tries to break free.

He has to reposition the chains a fraction to spread Ọkụ’s legs, revealing a growing dampness that ebbs and flows with each wave of cold he exposes her to. Icy fingers divide the slit, creating obscene sounds from her lips which are drawn out each time the temperature drops, or his fingers circle the clit. Sinking slowly to his knees, Loki pauses to play with the golden staff at the bellybutton, tasting the metal on his tongue as dull compared to the prickling zest of fresh sweat hiding notes of vanilla and lime. A drop of water lands on his cheek, reminding him that time is passing by.

The sigh should in truth have moved mountains and parted the waters in any ocean. Ọkụ has been tense, focused on the Jotun’s actions while trying to remain stoic. As the male uses his mouth to suck at her most intimate parts (sometimes with flat, broad licks from entrance to seam before next moment penetrating her with the flexible muscle) she relents. Fiery locks cascade around her shoulders as the sharp-minded head lulls back and her chest rises in sync with Loki’s ministrations.

The random drops of water turn into a trickle. Ọkụ’s core is boiling around ice-covered fingers and steam follows the trail of his tongue. Of course Loki decides to increase the bet and brings the hand that has been occupied further up the Efrit’s body down, squeezing an ass-cheek along the way before a coated finger finds a tighter orifice to slide in, eliciting a moan.

Melted ice mingles with copper hairs before landing on Loki’s nose and cheeks, forming rivulets past his jaw, down the stretched neck and onto his chest where ridges funnel the water along foreseeable paths over his muscled form. Glancing up, he finds that Ọkụ is watching with a hooded gaze, mouth releasing puffs of smoke.

She pouts when the Jotun abandons the pleasurable activities, but the whine is swallowed immediately as their tongues dance and battle for dominion just like they themselves have done. She will probably break free from the failing restraints any moment. For now, however, Loki abandons caution to taste the smoke of her breath on his lips, swallow the igneous cries as his fingers tangle in Ọkụ’s hair and pulls her head even closer, their bodies already pressing together despite the hard metal biting into the skin and ribs. Whatever power has created this female has done well, the Jotun accepts as his cock slides along the wet folds, spreading the lava-like liquid onto the throbbing shaft. He only allows a minimal of cold, cherishing instead the sweet burn.

Loki senses the icy hold of the chains falter before the Efrit does, thus preparing him for the retaliation. When Ọkụ realizes she can reclaim freedom and launches at him, the tall Jotun simply sidesteps and utilizes her momentum to toss the feisty spirit onto the thin mattress where she lands face first.

He is on her like a hawk. An iron grip around the throat minimizes the struggling enough that Loki can pull her rear to present the intimate folds and entrance. She curses him to the darkest places of the Verses, telling him to stop, and neither a hard slap to the full ass nor the tight squeeze of the windpipe silences her.

“You wanted to play this game,” Loki growls, aligning himself with the dripping cunt, “don’t be a sore looser.”

It’s heaven and it’s hell. Hot and cold clashes with each thrust that sheaths the Jotun to the very root and expels strangled cries from Ọkụ. Such sweet sounds falling from her lips as the harsh curses and “don’t” turn into pleas of “don’t stop” peppered with moans. Ripples of embers form cracked patterns spreading from the lowest of her spine each time Loki ruts into her, boiling the ice from his skin as quickly as it can form and making them both hiss with pain.

Forcefully, he yanks the female up flush against his own body and bites into the crook of her neck. Steam rises where they touch, filling the room with a humid haze. Ọkụ is no longer struggling to get away but rather grapping for anywhere she can get a hold of him, nails digging into flesh and back arching so prettily to present the soft breasts to him – what he wouldn’t have given for an extra arm right now. Instead, though, Loki snakes a hand between her thighs, adding to the pleasure he’s granting the Efrit now that she has learned to give in to him.

And she does give in. Ọkụ succumbs, hurtling over the threshold to ecstasy as her entire being spasms with the eruptive orgasm. Even though her breathing stops, Loki powers through, chasing his own release without stopping the torturous teasing of her clit. And when the Jotun comes…black spots swim before his eyes as his balls tighten and a last thrust fills the female with icy spurts that elicit whines of agonizing pleasure.

“I’ve…won,” Loki gasps before collapsing with her onto the drenched and singed bedding.


End file.
